Poet

They smiled each day
As Humility made them stronger
The meek and amiable voice
Wasn’t heard.
The gazes of satire
On filthy inhumanity
From the large windowpane
Unobserved.
And words deformed into meaning
Eventually.
Time couldn’t rob them of
From who they were.

The remains of those lost words,
Incite us to embrace an illusion,
Of time, being in a scurry.
As we cross paths
That unite us
With our mortal being,
The wanderer mocks at us
Steer us towards the light
Away from this misery.

Few lives we live
And for few
We outlive decades,
For the selfless
Mere blood and flesh
To ourselves, we deceive.

In this land of grief and fear
We die and reborn
Everyday.
From the ruins
Of those lost poets
And the souls
Who lived a life
Of discontent and drear.
—

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Long stares
At the coffee mug
From a distance
Watching
How it holds itself
Stable
On the desk
Alongside the poetry books
With crumbled edges
And faint covers
Doing what it’s
Meant to do
With ease.
A whirlwind
Coming from within,
Or just another form
Of it’s being,
As if it’s trying
To escape
Towards the larger void.
Emitting
A thin white string
Of aroma
To the air,
In an effort
To lose its made-up self
To calm itself down
And to come to a stage
Of it’s own
And be
What it’s meant to be.
After all
What’s more substantial
Than being
Selfless,
And leave a stain
On the desk,
As if it knows
All the rules of the universe.
—